“They had the broncs hid up Frio Canon way, I reckon,” explained Hart.  “But they didn’t take no chances.  When they left that ’dobe house they lit a-runnin’ and clumb for the high hills on the jump.  And they didn’t leave no address neither.  We’ll be followin’ a cold trail.  We’re not liable to find them after they hole up in some mountain pocket.”

“Might.  Never can tell.  Le’s take a whirl at it anyhow,” urged Dave.

“Hate to give up yore paint hoss, don’t you?” said Bob with his friendly grin.  “Ain’t blamin’ you none whatever, I’d sleep on those fellows’ trail if Chiquito was mine.  What say we outfit in the mornin’ and pull our freights?  Maybeso we’ll meet up with the thieves at that.  Yo no se (I don’t know).”

When Joyce was in the room where Dave lay on the lounge, the young man never looked at her, but he saw nobody else.  Brought up in a saddle on the range, he had never before met a girl like her.  It was not only that she was beautiful and fragrant as apple-blossoms, a mystery of maidenhood whose presence awed his simple soul.  It was not only that she seemed so delicately precious, a princess of the blood royal set apart by reason of her buoyant grace, the soft rustle of her skirts, the fine texture of the satiny skin.  What took him by the throat was her goodness.  She was enshrined in his heart as a young saint.  He would have thought it sacrilege to think of her as a wide-awake young woman subject to all the vanities of her sex.  And he could have cited evidence.  The sweetness of her affection for rough Em Crawford, the dear, maternal tenderness with which she ruled her three-year-old brother Keith, motherless since the week of his birth, the kindness of the luminous brown eyes to the uncouth stranger thrown upon her hospitality:  Dave treasured them all as signs of angelic grace, and they played upon his heartstrings disturbingly.

Joyce brought Keith in to say good-bye to Dave and his friend before they left.  The little fellow ran across the room to his new pal, who had busied himself weaving horsehair playthings for the youngster.

“You turn back and make me a bwidle, Dave,” he cried.

“I’ll sure come or else send you one,” the cowpuncher promised, rising to meet Joyce.

She carried her slender figure across the room with perfect ease and rhythm, head beautifully poised, young seventeen as self-possessed as thirty.  As much could not be said for her guests.  They were all legs and gangling arms, red ears and dusty boots.

“Yes, we all want you to come back,” she said with a charming smile.  “I think you saved Father’s life.  We can’t tell you how much we owe you.  Can we, Keith?”

“Nope.  When will you send the bwidle?” he demanded.

“Soon,” the restored patient said to the boy, and to her:  “That wasn’t nothin’ a-tall.  From where I come from we always been use to standin’ by our boss.”

He shifted awkwardly to the other foot, flushing to the hair while he buried her soft little hand in his big freckled one.  The girl showed no shyness.  Seventeen is sometimes so much older than twenty.